


Harlequin Romance

by erebones



Series: The Twelve Days of Fever [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Antivan Crows, Halamshiral, Inquisitor Felix Alexius, M/M, Satinalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9066301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Carver Hawke, trusted member of the Antivan Crows, has been tasked with attending the peace talks at the Winter Palace. His only instruction: to observe, and not to interfere. But things get complicated when he finds himself in a position to either spare the Inquisitor for the sake of his guild, or condemn him to certain death...





	

**Author's Note:**

> The second fic in the Twelve Days of Fever I'm doing with earlgreyer! Sorry for the cheesiness :D A little background: rather than become a Warden or a Templar, Carver was recruited into the Antivan Crows by its new Guildmaster, Zevran Arainai. He is now a formidable assassin and one of Zevran's most trusted guildmembers, the first to be trained under its new "no orphans" policy. The "harlequins" mentioned here, rather than freelancers, form a loose coalition of their own based in Orlais.

He doesn’t look like an assassin, is the thing. He’s too big for that. A nobleman’s son turned chevalier, say the eyes that slide over him, careless, unlingering. People like him are supposed to be lithe and cunning, to melt into the shadows, to never be seen until it’s too late. All the better for him. Those who judge him large and cumbersome are easier to catch unawares.

This isn’t really his sort of to-do, but the pay is good and Zevran had asked him personally. As a friend. The Guildmaster of the Crows isn’t supposed to have _friends_ , but Zevran isn’t a typical Guildmaster. Or a typical assassin. Neither is Carver, so it works out. Most of the time. Today isn’t really _working out_ for him. In the job sense, sure, he’s comfortable, he knows his objective and is making the rounds picking morsels off tables and enjoying the finest cuisine Orlais has to offer. He’s already made his obeisances to Briala and to the Nightingale, with Zevran’s personal message delivered in perfect cadence behind the curve of her fan. And he’s been seen by at least one Harlequin representative, he’s sure, even though he’s only picked two out of the crowd himself. There are a great deal more clinging to the shadows, but that is to be expected. Orlais is _their_ hunting ground, after all. His own presence here is more of a formality.

And that’s where his comfort ends and the ungodly boredom begins. He _hates_ this sort of thing—the simpering and smiling, rubbing elbows with a thousand perfumed Orlesians, playing the _Game_. But he’s a Crow, Maker take him, the first to be trained under Zevran’s new rule as Guildmaster, and so he’ll do what he was sent here to do. Show up, parade around, be recognized by those who knew to look for him, and depart again, satisfied that the major players in tonight’s elaborate dance know that the Crows were watching.

The only rule he was given, aside from not embarrassing the guild, was not to get involved. No deaths. No fingers in pies. The words almost have an Antivan lilt to them as he spins them through his mind like daggers, and he half-smiles behind his mask. Zevran’s determined frown conjures itself in his mind’s eye to accompany the orders. _You are there to observe, to be impartial, to remind the leaders of the free world who is always behind the scenes, pulling strings. Restrain your bleeding heart, Hawkeling._

People will die tonight. It’s inevitable, when kings and queens play with the pieces of their countries like pawns on a chessboard. Carver hates thinking about it, so he doesn’t, trying instead to enjoy himself, if only a little. It’s Satinalia, after all, even if it’s unlike any Satinalia he’s ever known. There are no pine boughs or candles—just magelights, silver and twinkling, casting a glow on the ballroom that’s meant to be festive but only feels distant and paper-thin, an illusion of holiday cheer. And no siblings running riot, or village children singing out of tune, only an unending sea of masked Orlesians, sailing past on a sea of perfume like frigates in a heavily-scent gale.

At least he is not alone in his disdain, or his discomfort. The members of the Inquisition are more brightly-colored and bizarre than any Orlesian ponce could hope to match, and he makes the rounds about the ballroom, picking them out and watching as they smirk and cavort and make their own fun under the haughty noses all around them.

The elf rogue girl, in particular, he enjoys; she’s people-watching, too, but there’s a glint and a deviousness to her that he recognizes and admires. And the stodgy, bearded Warden who looks more comfortable than he should, though he’s always trying to cover it up, badly, like pulling a length of sackcloth over a beautiful, preening peacock to disguise its true nature. There are others—a Tevinter mage with too much pomade in his hair; a warrior woman who reminds him unsettlingly of Aveline; and Varric, of course, who he pretends not to recognize and who pretends not to recognize him in turn—but the most intriguing individual of all is the Inquisitor himself.

Carver was briefed beforehand, naturally. The Inquisitor is an unusual man, not trained as a fighter, born a mage but a terrible one, according to all accounts. Being Tevinter, this was apparently a very grave matter. Though he was never at risk for being made Tranquil, his own grandfather had tried to have him assassinated, only to be thwarted by his mother. Years later had found him traveling South with his father, ostensibly in search of a cure for the Blight sickness that plagued him; but being thrown into the Fade and then spat back out again had scoured the Blight from his body, a trick that Carver is still curious about. A shame the Fade couldn’t give him any swordsmanship skills or magical ability, but he supposes that’s what his carnival of followers is for.

And he really is a very good diplomat. Carver watches as the man charms the court with ease, flirting and smiling and skillfully keeping everyone at a distance even as he makes them feel special. He’s so good that hardly anyone notices his occasional disappearance, or the way he flits between Gaspard and Briala like a ghost, keeping his cards close to his chest. Hardly anyone except Carver.

The Inquisitor is also an excellent dancer, gamely taking partner after partner in between his brief disappearances or clandestine chats with his advisors, and Carver finds himself lingering longer to watch him. He’s a beautiful man, small-ish in the way of most mages, with pretty manners to match his pretty smile. Like the rest of his entourage, he wears no mask, exposing a friendly, handsome face and eyes so dark that Carver wonders if there’s any color there at all. It’s eerie, almost ghoulish—a lingering mark left by the Blight, perhaps. But he smiles and seduces well enough to make up for it, and Carver finds some of his tension is bleeding away, growing comfortable in the knowledge that the Inquisitor can handle whatever political bullshit might come his way tonight.

Things are going so well, in fact, that at first he doesn’t realize that a few notable members of the Inquisitor’s party have been missing for quite some time. When he does, it’s already too late—someone has come and whisked the Inquisitor away under everyone’s noses, and the talks are very close indeed. Broiling with curiosity and promising himself he won’t get involved, Carver finds the shadows and gives chase.

The royal apartments. Interesting. He’s a little behind, and he finds only scattered corpses when he arrives in the courtyard—Tevinters. _Venatori_. And a blackened scorch mark in the middle, the telltale sign of a rift only recently closed. He notes the handiwork—magebane-tipped arrows, and some very skillful bladework, likely none of it the Inquisitor’s doing—and moves on, following the faint sounds of battle.

When he arrives at the little private chapel, decorated ostentatiously for the holiday, it seems that things are well in hand. A few harlequins, probably initiates, lay sprawled on the floor already, their fine silken garments stained red with their own blood.  The elfin girl is like a shadow, slipping here and there as her arrows fly like deadly hummingbirds; the Seeker is all hue and cry and gloat as she draws the attention of her opponents like a beacon. And the Tevinter, flashy, fire exploding from his fingertips, crying out gleefully as he sends another Venatori crashing to the floor in a heap of embers.

He doesn’t see the Inquisitor, at first. He’s certainly not in the thick of the fight. Carver’s eyes scan the dim room and there, crouched out of sight, he sees a glimpse of royal red fabric and the glint of golden buttons. The Inquisitor is pocketing something—a figurine of some kind, he can’t make out the details. And behind him…

 _Well, fuck_ , he thinks resignedly to himself, already loosening his daggers out of their hidden sheaths. There’s another harlequin. And the Inquisitor’s companions are all otherwise occupied. _Sorry, Zev. This one’s worth interfering for._

He can’t even begin to imagine the chaos that would ensue if the Inquisitor should be murdered on the night of the peace talks. Only a few seconds to decide, but for him, it isn’t a choice at all. He throws down a smoke grenade right at his feet and vanishes, reappearing in the same instant that he grabs the assassin by the head and twists, hard. There’s a sharp _snap_ and a wet gurgle, and he throws the limp corpse aside just in time for the tip of a blade to make itself known under his chin.

“Cassandra, wait!”

Everything is still. Carver puts both hands up where the warrior can see them and stares back at her through the holes in his raven mask. Below him, the Inquisitor scrambles out of his crouch and stands between her and Carver, breathing hard.

“Cass. Don’t. He saved my life.” The poor man’s voice is shaking as the adrenaline of the near-miss hits him, but he doesn’t back down, even though the warrior’s tremendous broadsword is a slice away from taking off his ear.

“Identify yourself,” she snaps. “Who are you? What are you doing lurking in the royal apartments?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Carver replies smoothly, because he can’t resist a little banter. “Forgive me, but would you mind dropping the blade? He’s right, you know—I just saved your arses.”

There’s a snort and a giggle from the rogue. “Well you’re a Fereldan and a half then, aren’t you?” she chirps, but Carver doesn’t move, only smiles very thinly as the sword is lowered a touch.

“Accents are easy to fake,” the Tevinter puts in, but he, too seems to have relaxed at the sound of Carver’s voice. “But Felix is right, Cassandra—he did just save our arses. And the entire bloody country of Orlais, most likely, if not all of Thedas itself.”

The sword is sheathed suddenly, and Cassandra huffs. “Very well. But you have still not answered my question. Who are you, and why were you following us?”

He’s already hip-deep in trouble, he might as well go all the way. With slow, careful movements, taking care not to alarm anyone, he takes off his mask and lets it swing idly from his finger. “Carver Hawke, of the Crows. I was here to observe, only, but I’ve certainly bollixed that up, thanks to you.” He doesn’t miss the twitch of Cassandra’s eyelid at the drop of his name, but his own eyes are focused on the Inquisitor. “Don’t you know it’s bloody inconvenient being a bigwig in a fight without any battle sense whatsoever?”

“That’s what _we’re_ for,” the Tevinter pipes up hotly, mustache quivering madly. “Felix is a _diplomat_ —”

“Then he should not be traipsing about in dark corners just asking for a knife in the ribs,” Carver snaps back. The Tevinter looks ready to respond just as snippily, but Cassandra puts a hand up, forestalling him.

“Please. This is hardly the time for quibbling. There is still much to uncover, and not much time left.”

The Inquisitor—Felix—has finally stepped back, apparently satisfied that Cassandra is not about to behead his timely rescuer, and he turns to look Carver in the face. His eyes are very dark and intent, and Carver swallows the pert response that had been hovering at his lips. He suddenly understands why the man was made Inquisitor, rift-closing hand or no.

“You said you weren’t to interfere,” Felix says consideringly, steadier now that he’s had a chance to breathe. There’s still an assassin lying dead at his feet, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Then again, it’s not as if it’s the first time. “Do you expect to be punished?”

“By Zevran? Hardly. But I’ve definitely stepped far, far out of line with _that_.” He nudges the corpse with his toe. “We’re not rivals with the Harlequins, but we’re definitely not friends, and if Zev doesn’t want to start an all-out war, he’s going to have to disown me.” He heaves a great sigh. “Pity. I was really starting to enjoy myself.”

Felix tilts his head, but he doesn’t take his eyes off him as he addresses his companions. “Thoughts?”

Cassandra sighs. “I cannot imagine Varric would be too pleased if we just left him. He has a blind spot for the Hawke family a mile wide.”

“He _did_ save your life,” the archer puts in.

“And he’s not bad to look at, either.” The Tevinter winks, and Felix rolls his eyes.

“Thank you for your input, Dorian. I _do_ have eyes, you know,” he adds in an undertone meant only for Carver’s ears. Carver definitely does _not_ blush.

“Did you have a plan, then?” he asks, trying to pretend he isn’t just a little bit anxious. The Crows are his family, for all intents and purposes, and he doesn’t look forward to trying to forge a new life for himself all on his own. “Only, if you do, you should do something about it quickly, before the entire Court is in an uproar because you haven’t been seen in half an hour.”

Felix’s button nose wrinkles very briefly with distaste, and Carver tries not to smile. “The _Court_ , such as they are, will survive. Whether Duchess Florianne will is another matter.” He gestures with his left hand, and Carver sees the glint of green fire beneath his gauntlet, feels the slight prickle of hair lifting on the back of his neck. It’s eerie, and strangely beautiful, refusing to be hidden even under leather and cloth. “We still have time to intercept her. Carver… it is Carver, isn’t it? The Champion’s younger brother, I assume?”

“No relation,” Carver quips with a straight face. “Or so I would wish. Alas, the Maker has a terrible sense of humor, and so I am ever following in his footsteps, even here.”

The Inquisitor smiles. _Andraste, but he’s a pretty one_. “I’m afraid I have a Duchess to apprehend, but I can’t let you slip away. Consider yourself under the protection of the Inquisition. Stay close, and after all of this is over I hope you will consider forging a more formal alliance.”

“The Inquisitor wants to add an assassin to his arsenal of loyal followers?” Carver asks. He doesn’t pretend that he’s not surprised. He might have saved the man’s life, but to be invited to join the Inquisition is quite a bold statement, politically speaking.

“I’m sure Leliana will put you to good use. Now, if you would excuse me.” He nods once, sharply, and it’s softened only a little by the smile still teasing the corners of his lips. “Do try and stay alive until I can formally conscript you.”

///

Carver _does_ manage to stay alive, somehow. The night is a whirlwind, but it’s over more quickly than he could have hoped, and in the very early hours of the morning he finds himself being ushered into the Inquisitor’s private suite after playing catch-up with Varric in the antechamber. It’s a very large set of apartments, horribly froofy and Orlesian, and though Felix looks out of place—still in his somewhat battle-worn finery, too smudged and sweaty to be at home—he welcomes Carver with a bright smile and a firm clasp of hands as if he were in his own fortress with all the weight of his army behind him.

“Carver. I’m glad you came.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Carver asks lightly.

Felix shrugs and sits on a bench piled high with pillows. “You have options. I wasn’t certain if I was the most desirable.”

Carver fights for composure, and only just avoids blurting out just how _desirable_ he finds him. Getting entangled with the Inquisitor is just asking for trouble, no matter how pretty he is. “I’ve heard good things. And Varric has stayed this long, which means you can’t be _too_ terrible.”

“I’m glad to have earned his good opinion, then. And yours.” He seems to be growing more languid by the moment, letting his Inquisitorial persona slip away in increments. His gauntlets are off, Carver notices, and the mark on his hand is very visible, a flickering green light that draws his curious eyes like moths to a flame. “I’ve spoken with Leliana—it seems she is somewhat acquainted with you and your family, as well. You cast a wide net, Serrah Hawke.”

“Just Carver,” he says automatically, standing up a little straighter. “Hawke is my brother. And—yes, I remember her, though not very well. She was a lay sister in the Chantry my family attended when I was a child.”

Felix nods. “So she said. She has expressed an earnest desire to acquire your particular talents… and your particular connections. I know the Crows will have to publicly separate themselves from you, but it is a link we would be most eager to maintain under the table. She explained it all to me,” he adds, apparently picking up on Carver’s incredulity. “It sounds all terribly complicated and political in ways that I am not familiar with, but what it all boils down to is this: you saved my life, and I cannot let that go unrewarded. With the Inquisition you would have protection, private quarters, steady work, flexibility, a salary. Work for me, help save the world, and you may even be allowed to return to the Crows eventually, when the underworld forgets about one silly little Harlequin gone astray.” He smiles with his teeth, and Carver catches his breath, taken aback once more at the merciless, effortless machinations going on behind that pretty face.

“I would be honored to serve,” he says. He’s still standing, while Felix sits all lackadaisical on his bench like a king. It feels awkward, so he goes to one knee and puts his fist to his chest. “My blade is yours.”

Felix’s eyes glint in the candlelight. “I am glad to hear it.” He leans forward, then stands, and for a moment Carver’s chest swells and he is overwhelmed, stripped bare by the Inquisitor’s easy dominance over the situation. Over him. He swallows, and twitches only a little when Felix lays a hand on his shoulder. “Rise, please.” And suddenly the kingly demeanor falls away, and he’s smiling cheerfully, if wearily, as Carver stands. “I shan’t keep you any longer—it’s been a very eventful day for everyone, and I think we could all do with a good long rest. See Josephine and she will find you a room, or at least a bed. And happy Satinalia,” he adds as Carver makes for the door.

He turns back, caught unawares. His earlier reminiscing feels so long ago, now, he can hardly believe it’s the same day. “I… the same to you. Thank you. I had forgotten.”

When he’s alone again, the door closed firmly behind him, he leans against for a moment to catch his breath. The Inquisitor is certainly a force of nature. Carver thinks he likes it. Joining his cause might just be the best thing to happen to him since Zev convinced him to give up the broadsword for a set of daggers.

 _Happy Satinalia to me_. Thinking of a pair of dark, knowing eyes, he heads off to find the Lady Ambassador, whistling an old Fereldan carol under his breath.


End file.
